


Robbery and Dreams

by lizardkid



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, M/M, the phallic symbolism of cigars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2020-10-11 15:49:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20548697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizardkid/pseuds/lizardkid
Summary: The year is 1899. The world is changing. Dutch van der Linde is heading down a dark path and his closest friends will try to save him without becoming collateral damage. Arthur is struggling not to inherit the shame and self-loathing that threatens to be the demise of Dutch. Micah is a cunt, Hosea is old, and Charles has beautiful eyes. History is cyclical. It's all rather tragic.





	1. I. Arthur's Journal

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been stuck in my mind for months and I can't let it go until I do it justice. It probably won't have a happy ending, but it'll have a hopeful ending, if that helps. And honestly, probably it will be happier than the canonical ending.
> 
> If you're into music, I have a couple of very long Spotify playlists:
> 
> [one for Arthur (and Charles/Arthur) ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6ygq6hyhIIDr6UXEzYaMJV?si=_AVpsIv0SqyVtOPVe8hjhw)
> 
>   
[one for Hosea/Dutch](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4VcsAPQAgiyZpiBc3taHET?si=G3VOhSnXSreXOBQZiRmzoQ)
> 
> they total about 8 hours but there's some repeated songs on both. enjoy!

_February 4th 1899_

> _Spent the last few days with some of the new recruits. Dutch’s idea. Jenny, Charles, Lenny. And Hosea, too. We robbed a stagecoach last night. I weren’t too sure about bringing Jenny along, figured it might remind her too much of the night we found her, but she did just fine. More than fine, to give Miss Jenny her due. Lenny seems smitten with her, much to Hosea’s delight. The old man keeps teasing them. Charles doesn’t say much. Not sure exactly how I feel about him yet but being quiet’s a damn sight better than being a loudmouth. Guess we’ll see. He works hard anyway._

_February 5th 1899 _

> _Charles broke his vow of silence today. Suggested we do some hunting, so we’re splitting up for the day. Lenny and Hosea are going fishing, me and Charles and Jenny are going hunting. I said fishing might be more suitable for a lady but Jenny started on about how fishing is a dull, crude hobby for old folk with nothing better to do. Hosea’s face was a sight to behold. Don’t think he would have taken her fishing after that if we’d a begged him. Even Charles was smiling._

“What’re you smiling about, cowboy?” Jenny questioned breezily, blocking out Arthur’s light as he folded his journal closed and looked up at her.

“Nothing as concerns you, Miss Jenny.”

“That so?”

It didn’t seem like she expected him an answer, but she waited while he pulled his boots on, her dark brown eyes glittering with mischief.

“Are you and Charles gonna let me handle a bow today, or is that too unladylike for you, Mister Morgan?”

Arthur scoffed, pausing with one boot halfway up his foot to peer up at her with amusement. “Did you _bring_ a bow?” he drawled.

The mischief almost upped and died, but before it could slide off her face entirely, Arthur laughed and grabbed his bow from where lay against his makeshift tent. He hooked it over her shoulder. “Don’t break it,” he warned instead of answering the question on her tongue, already tugging his boot over his heel. “I’ll use my rifle.”

There was a pause as Arthur moved to extinguish the fire and Jenny considered the gesture. “Thanks, Arthur,” she said eventually, a little more subdued than usual.

“Don’t mention it.”

“You know,” Charles said quietly, when the camp was packed up and Jenny was out of earshot. “That Varmint Rifle won’t catch you anything worth catching.”

If Arthur was at all shocked that Charles had spoken to him for the first time since the previous day, he didn’t show it. He just rolled his large shoulders in a shrug and agreed, “Pro’ly not.”

As he set about adjusting Boadicea’s stirrups, Arthur pretended not to notice the weight of Charles’ lingering gaze on his face. There was no hope of him figuring out what a look like that could mean. “That’s my girl,” he muttered absently, patting his horse’s dappled neck fondly. Boadicea had seen Arthur safely through a lot of trouble in the short time they’d been together, and her ability to listen to his rambling thoughts was surpassed only by his journal. She leant into his touch and nickered.

Only once he heard Charles mounting his own horse did Arthur glance back at his receding form.

-

“We’ll take this next right to head further up into the valley,” Charles informed them once they’d set off. “There’s a creek just a couple hours north east of us. Reckon that’s our best shot at some decent-sized game.”

Neither Arthur nor Jenny had any objections, so they let Charles lead the way in silence.

When Arthur tilted his head forward, the rain that had collected in the brim of his hat cascaded out and he almost went cross-eyed trying to focus on the fat droplets of water. It was the third day of almost constant rain, and it poured sideways across the valley in thick, misty sheets. The world was gunmetal grey, glinting dangerously in the cold light that slipped through the oppressive clouds in celestial streaks. Moisture and thoughts clung to the thick air as the three companions and their horses moved quietly along the trail. It was a comforting pressure against Arthur’s perspiring skin.

Jenny was the first to grasp one of those nomadic thoughts from the air and give voice to it. “This the best weather to hunt in?”

“Not the best,” Charles said as Arthur huffed a gruff laugh. “Not the worst.”

“‘Long as it ain’t heavy rain,” Arthur added, “we should be just fine. ‘Least that’s what I heard. I’m not much of a hunter… of animals, anyway.”

Charles hummed softly in agreement, barely a whisper of a sound above the steady patter of rain and horse hooves. “If it gets heavier, we’ll just wait it out. It’s been almost three days now, so I’m hoping it’ll ease up by the time we reach the creek.”

“Hoping?” Arthur exclaimed, turning in his saddle to look hard at Charles and then altering his posture again when Boadicea mistook the movement for instruction. “Hardly took you for an optimist, Charles.”

“It’s not optimism, Arthur. Just observation.” Charles kept his eyes on the horizon, so Arthur looked away from him.

“Well, whatever you wanna call it,” Arthur grumbled, but something caught Jenny’s attention before he could finish his sentence.

“Hey,” she said, quietly. “What’s that?”

Arthur and Charles swivelled toward her simultaneously to discern the direction in which she was looking, then turned their heads toward the sky. Her gaze was fixed atop a ridge that jutted out about halfway up the mountain and overlooked their secluded path. All three of them halted their steeds and squinted against the dark greyness of the rain. Arthur was the first to speak.

“Looks like people,” he said warily, as Charles removed his binoculars from his satchel.

“Two people.”

Jenny shifted uncomfortably. “What do they look like?” Rather than answer, Charles passed the binoculars to her. “Huh,” she said, once she'd sated her curiosity. “Well, what do we do? Shoot them?”

“_Shoot_ them? For doing what?”

“Ain’t polite to stare, Mister Morgan.”

“Yeah, well, we start shooting fellers for staring an’ there won’t be no fellers left.”

“You’re telling me,” she retorted.

Arthur laughed heartily at that, his eyes leaving the ridge to see that good-natured twinkle in her eyes again. “Touché, Miss Jenny.”

“Come on,” Charles continued, as though neither of them had spoken. “We should keep going.”

By the time Jenny had stowed Charles’ binoculars in her own pack, Charles had pressed his horse into a canter, leaving Arthur and Jenny to cast one last furtive look at their voyeurs. They shared a wary glance of their own, then pressed on northward, the rain trailing behind them.

*

_February 5th 1899 _

> _Boy, what a day it turned into. Saw some folks watching us from the mountain but we didn’t think nothing of it. I guess we thought a little more than nothing but we didn’t do nothing. Charles took us up to Little Creek River and we tried to teach Miss Jenny to use a bow. Well, that girl ain’t got a hunter’s bone in her body but she sure gave it her all. Charles caught a big buck but we had to abandon it when the folks from earlier came back with their friends. Nasty bunch. We shoulda been more careful. We were real lucky to escape. A bullet caught Charles but it ain’t too serious, so he says anyway. _

Arthur looked up from his journal to stare into the campfire flames. Across from him, Hosea and Jenny were talking amiably. Lenny was a little way behind them tending to the horses, feeding them the carrots they no longer needed.

> _Jenny apologised for what she said about fishing earlier. Especially when she realised it was between fish and a few old vegetables for dinner. Seems Lenny and Hosea had much better luck than we did._

A wide yawn parted Arthur’s jaw and he put his journal away once he’d finished a quick sketch of the two figures on the mountain. He looked past the fire this time, watching his companion’s faces. Lenny joined them, seating himself next to Jenny. Arthur couldn’t make out their voices. The sounds warped through the flames, obscured by the sight of the fire licking at the darkness like hounds on their hind legs fighting for a scrap of meat. Hosea laughed and it sounded far away, like a dream. Arthur could feel himself slipping, his eyelashes suddenly the heaviest thing he’d ever tried to lift.

“Hey.” Charles’ voice, though soft, startled Arthur. He drew in a quick breath through his nose, blinking up at the other man who now seemed to be smiling at Arthur’s response. “I’m sorry,” Charles said. “I didn’t realise you were asleep.”

“I wasn’t,” Arthur protested, but when he sat up straight, he noticed that Lenny and Jenny had already turned in for the night, Hosea was sitting in quiet reverie, and the fire had died down considerably. “Oh,” he admitted, rubbing his neck sheepishly.

Charles squatted to settle next to him, hitting the sturdy log against which Arthur leant with a grunt and an uncharacteristic lack of elegance. Arthur’s concern snapped him out of his drowsiness a little.

“You alright?” he asked, his gaze drifting to the blood that had seeped through Charles’ shirt.

“Fine,” Charles returned, though the terseness was obvious. In his hands, Arthur noticed he held a block of wood and a sharp tool, curved like a crescent moon, but when Charles put them to one side, Arthur met Charles’ impenetrable gaze. It felt like being shot. Arthur reeled for a few moments, a dying man staggering backwards in shock at the force of a bullet, but he recovered quickly. Charles was likely too preoccupied to notice; his eyes looked bleary with pain and exhaustion, and his thick eyelashes clung to the beads of sweat that pooled beneath his eyes.

After processing all of this – and it was a slow process – Arthur cleared his throat. “You sure? You look a little – like, well.”

“Like I’ve been shot?”

It took Arthur longer than it should have to realise he was joking, but Charles’ delivery had been so deadpan that Arthur thought he’d hit a nerve. Instead, the man in question cracked a smile after a good few seconds, and Arthur disguised his breath of relief as a chuckle.

“I’m okay. It’ll heal quick as long as I keep it clean and…” Charles’ voice drifted off in the cool night air; the sentence unfinished.

“Charles?” Arthur prompted, brow flattening in concern.

This time, when Charles met his eyes, Arthur felt like the one delivering the shot. Charles didn’t seem the type to relish vulnerability, but sometimes it was unavoidable. “Arthur, would you mind—could you help me change the bandage?”

“I—_me_?” he said dumbly, and Charles nodded patiently. “Wouldn’t you be better—” Arthur looked over at Hosea, who was now dozing soundly, only his chin visible beneath the brim of his hat. “I mean, it ain’t exactly my area of expertise.”

“I know.” There was a short beat that neither of them knew how to fill, and then Charles continued, “but I don’t want to wake the others, and I can’t do it myself.”

Their eyes remained locked as Arthur considered the request, overwhelmed and distracted by the feeling that Charles had just handed him a very sacred and secret part of himself, though it seemed a stupid way to feel when he thought about it. The air was just too heavy, the sleep too close, and his mind overactive. There wasn’t anything in it. Arthur was looking too hard. “Alright,” he acquiesced finally, and Charles tugged off his shirt over his head with a little difficulty.

The embers’ golden light poured over Charles’ dark skin in swathes, the lines that defined his muscles darkened by the deep, writhing shadows. The shoulder closest to Arthur glistened with fresh blood. Tattered strips of an old shirt clung limply to the sticky, congealed layer of blood beneath, but Arthur thought it didn’t look too bad – all things considered.

“Let’s get this over with,” Arthur muttered, taking the strips of fabric that Charles offered him.

“Just do as I say, and it’ll be okay.”

Arthur nodded but Charles’ eyes had already slid shut.

Carefully, he began to peel the old material away from the skin as Charles’ words reverberated around his skull.

Arthur wondered if anything could ever be that simple.

*

_ February 11th 1899 _

> _Finally found out why Hosea’s got that look in his eye. Wily, Dutch calls it. Genius more like. Hosea is the <strike>clevest</strike> cleverest of all of us, no doubt about it. It’s some real estate business, robbing a bunch of rich idiots who already got more money than sense. _
> 
> _Micah is still hanging around camp like a bad smell. Him and Dutch are busy with a plan of their own, but it sounds like lunacy to me. Hosea thinks so, too, but Dutch won’t listen. _
> 
> _To tell the truth, I’m worried about our future. Ain’t like Dutch not to listen to Hosea. <strike>The two of them</strike> <strike>are</strike> <strike>have always</strike>_ _<strike>They</strike>_ _<strike>need</strike> _
> 
> _I don’t quite know what they are,_ _and it ain’t my business._ _But I know it runs real deep. And I know it ain’t been right for a while. _

The breeze purred lazily over the reeds, causing them to sway like a sea of drunken sailors. The rain had abated, and the sky was Blue Jay blue; the stray clouds, its fluffy white chest. Arthur smiled up at it, his hands behind his head, one leg crossed over the other. It had been a while since he’d stopped to enjoy the view. His journal lay open beside him, pen discarded somewhere in the long grass. He wasn’t a writer, and even if he were, he believed that there were things in the world that were meant to be indescribable, meant to be felt.

The sound of soft footfalls on the dry earth drew Arthur’s attention.

“Working hard today, huh?” Hosea’s voice called, good-natured but teasing.

Smiling, Arthur responded, “That’s my line, old man.” Hosea’s shadow fell across Arthur’s body as the older man lowered himself into the grass with audible effort. “You alright?” he queried, craning his neck to the side to get a better view of his companion. Hosea was drawing his legs up to his chest, crossed at the ankles, when Arthur spoke, and his response was to nod slowly.

“Of course,” he replied, though his voice sounded weary. Arthur watched him closely with concern, studied the lines that time and laughter had etched into his skin. His grey hair quivered like the reeds.

When no further response came, Arthur turned away, looked back at the vast, open sky, let the intensity of life overwhelm him, let it fill his every atom. Flocks of birds flitted and fretted high above him, all tight knit and synchronised. Arthur thought about the gang. Arthur thought about everyone he’d even known.

His fingers twitched restlessly behind his head as a bird of prey hovered nearby, low and purposeful. Immediately, he reached for his binoculars to study it more closely. Its steely blue-grey back glittered like jewels under the sun.

“It’s a Pigeon Hawk,” Hosea supplied once the binoculars were resting in Arthur’s lap. “I’m heading into Blackwater today, if you’d like to join me.”

Picking up his journal, Arthur nodded. “Just you and me?”

“Just you and me, kid,” Hosea repeated, watching Arthur flip the leaves of the book and begin to fill the blank space with life, smiling at the way Arthur’s fingers shifted and his wrist curved with such grace. “You’ve always been real observant, Arthur,” he added, blinking down at the beautifully rendered bird unfolding beneath the tip of Arthur’s pencil. Arthur hummed again, trying to ignore the guilt that his words stirred, and Hosea met his eyes. “Where’d you learn how to do that, anyhow?”

A memory came back in a rush, and Arthur swallowed around the weight of the past. The strength of it dragged him, kicking and screaming, back to his adolescence.

“Don’t know,” he said slowly. “Guess I just… like losing myself in something. Sometimes the world makes more sense if I look at it as a fish, or a bird, or… something. Kinda freeing, immersing myself in another piece of life. Ain’t as… ah, I don’t know.” Arthur’s knuckles flexed spasmodically, nervously. “Guess I ain’t making too much sense.”

Hosea sighed quietly beside him and ran his fingers through his hair. “You know something, Arthur?”

“What’s that?”

“Makes perfect sense to me.”

*

Arthur was still just a teenager, and Hosea’s hair was Canary blond. The gang was hardly a gang in those days. It was just the five of them: Dutch, Hosea, Arthur, Bessie, Susan.

It was late afternoon. Arthur had been sent into town with the women. Dutch had said that someone needed to look after them, and Arthur had begrudgingly agreed.

When he’d returned early, stolen goods spilling from his pockets, Arthur hadn’t found Dutch and Hosea at camp as he’d expected, so he scouted the surrounding woods. Fearing the worst, Arthur had crept as quietly as he could. Arthur remembered how still the forest had been that day, how muffled each sound was, how the birds had spoken to one another in hushed voices. A deer bathed in golden light had stared straight through him.

Rather than finding their dead bodies, or a rival gang holding them hostage, Arthur found them alone.

“Dutch,” Arthur said, his voice younger and younger each time he remembered it.

Dutch had turned. In his hands were a pencil and paper; on his face, something unreadable. His dark eyes, darker than Arthur had ever seen them. Arthur had mistaken it for anger. The strangeness of the situation had made him panic, but he swallowed the fear down like a pill.

Hosea was sleeping soundly, his head on Dutch’s thigh, torso bare, belt unbuckled.

Dutch had just looked at him. Arthur hadn’t known what to do except look back. He could never remember how much time passed before he turned away and walked to camp as calmly as possible, dread settling in the pit of his stomach and weighing him down.

Neither of them had ever brought it up, but the moment had frozen like a painting in his mind.

*

Silver Dollar snorted as the O’Driscoll boy slammed Arthur’s spine forcefully against the hard dirt road. There was barely enough time for Arthur to groan before the man was upon him, straddling him roughly and balling a fist into his shirt. With his other fist, he dealt a devastating blow to Arthur’s cheek. Arthur groaned again, still dazed from the impact, his arms splayed uselessly at his sides. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, and he spat it in boy’s face.

“At least buy me a drink first,” Arthur managed to utter before the second blow landed, and the wheeze that followed was peppered with breathless laughter.

“Fuck are you laughin’ about,” the boy hissed, spittle spraying everywhere.

A gunshot to the boy’s right startled him enough for Arthur to grab him by the throat and roll them both over.

“Reckon he’s laughing at you, son,” Hosea interjected, wiping the blood from his face and limping toward them, his gun outstretched. Arthur had the boy pinned down now.

“Quit squirming,” he grumbled as the boy lapsed into meaningless sobs and grunts. “It’ll be quicker if you stay still.”

“No, no, no! Fuck! Please!” he begged, all pretension of bravado vanishing like a curtain drawn. “Don’t fuckin’ kill me – please – I won’t tell no one!”

Arthur sighed.

“Green as anything,” Hosea observed. “Where does Colm find these kids?”

“In the gutter, I guess. What’re we doing with him, Hosea?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Hosea lowered the gun. “Kill him, cut out his tongue, throw him back in the gutter. Up to you.”

The boy in question had gone still, and he stared up at Arthur with two wide saucers for eyes. Looking at his face this close – really looking – Arthur figured he couldn’t be older than sixteen or seventeen. Maybe even younger, if the years had really been unkind to him. Incoherent prayers were falling from the boy’s lips, his watery, blue eyes rolling back to look at the heavens. The decision had been made before Arthur’s fingers could wrap around the hilt of his knife. “God dammit,” he said, and released his grip on the boy.

Those saucer eyes stretched even wider, bewildered at the turn of events.

“Go on, get,” Arthur growled as he stood, taking the gun that Hosea offered him and returning it to its holster.

“This ain’t a—a trick?”

“Naw,” he drawled, “I got bigger fish to fry than some spotty kid.” When the boy continued to lay there, shocked into inaction, Arthur’s patience began to wane. “I said _get_, boy! ‘Fore I quit being a fool and change my damn mind.”

As the boy ran from the scene, he convulsively checked over his shoulder, half-expecting them to shoot him dead for sport. Each time he looked, all he saw were two silhouettes watching him stumble with eerie disinterest, until he reached his horse and the phantom pair receded from view.

Once Arthur had retrieved his hat, he looked at Hosea from under it. “You think I should’a shot him?”

Hosea shrugged. “Too late now.”

“Yeah.” Arthur looked at his feet, nodding carefully. “Yeah, I guess.”

-

They were quiet while they took what they could from the dead bodies. Neither had any qualms about doing so. After so many years, it had almost become a solemn ritual. Pairs upon pairs of blank eyes stared up at them from pale, clammy faces, some of their bullet wounds rendering them unrecognisable. Bones jutted from skulls caved in, brains spilled, half-attached ears flapped. Arthur patted their thighs, stroked the lining of their jackets, rolled their limp bodies over in the mud like ragdolls. The intimacy of it made him nauseous.

When he was sixteen, Dutch had instructed him to loot the body of a man that Dutch had shot dead. Arthur still remembered the man’s face vividly, remembered the sickly heat of a fresh corpse’s skin, even remembered his name. Arthur’s hands shook and he’d sobbed like a baby, and when it was done, he’d vomited the horror up behind a tree. Knees in the mud, clinging to the trunk like a child to his mother’s leg, weeping.

It was Hosea who’d come to him – Hosea, who’d rubbed comforting circles into his shoulders – Hosea, who’d apologised – Hosea, who’d let an adolescent Arthur smear snot onto his shoulder in front of half the gang.

There was never any bravado with Hosea, Arthur thought, as he paused to watch the old man struggle to his knees, a wince of pain flashing on his worn face. No glamour. No conceit. No vanity.

“Here, let me.” Arthur presented his outstretched hand to Hosea, who looked at it for a moment, then looked at Arthur. “’S no job for old bones.”

“Arthur—” he started to say, but then thought better of it. With a pained exhale, Hosea wiped his hands on his pants, and took the offering. Arthur helped him to his feet and clasped his shoulder gently.

By the time Arthur had finished, Hosea was perched atop Silver Dollar, using some of the gun oil he’d looted to polish his revolvers. “Find anything interesting?”

“Ammo, cheap jewellery, stale food – the usual,” Arthur replied as he mounted Boadicea with a grunt. “Here—” Arthur tossed an unopened box of ammo to him, which Hosea caught with shocking reflexes for his age. The empty bottle of gun oil tumbled out of his saddle and landed with a splintered thud in the grass.

“Oh, no,” Hosea began to protest, “it’s yours—”

“I don’t need them,” Arthur lied easily, and then flung a small packet of crackers over, smiling when he heard Hosea sigh.

The day was yet young, and they still had a way to go before reaching the homestead, so Arthur sat back in his saddle and spurred his horse on, patting her neck as he did so. “Yer a good girl, Bo.”

The morning slid steadily onwards, and Hosea said, “You’re good to me, Arthur,” when they were trotting side by side, the hot midday sun beating down on their backs, their shirts, freshly donned that morning, already soaked with several layers of sweat.

“I know.” Boadicea shook her head and snorted as they crossed a river. “Someone’s got to be.” The water that sprayed their hot bodies was cool and tantalising, and Arthur wished they could stop and swim for a while. Just a while. But Hosea was real set on this job, and it was a good one. A real good plan.

So, Arthur was surprised when Silver Dollar slowed to a stop. Following suit, Arthur frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’,” Hosea said, honest. “Just—”

When Hosea paused, the world filled his silence. The river roared and hissed, the reeds shivered and whispered. Somewhere, a frog croaked loudly. Arthur’s eyes slipped shut. Boadicea shifted beneath him, pawing at the ground with a hoof.

“It’ll still be there tomorrow,” Hosea said at last, after minutes of contemplation.

Arthur opened his eyes and smiled and said, “I thought there was a contact waiting for us.”

Hosea smiled back, toothy and honest, his eyes squinting into crescents. “I’m sure he’ll understand. He’s quite desperate to be a part of the venture, y’know.”

“Whatever you say, old man,” Arthur laughed, thoroughly unconvinced but more than happy to go along with it. “Where to?”

-

They travelled further down the river until the road that veered north-westward was no longer in sight and the river forked, and then they hitched their horses to a sturdy nearby tree. By mid-afternoon, they were fishing, their bare feet submerged, pants rolled up to the shin, shirts unbuttoned and eventually discarded.

The dead bodies were just a memory of a morning’s nightmare.

Hosea looked more peaceful than he had in a long time, and Arthur was glad of their change of plans, if just to see his old man so content.

Despite the constant thrum of life around them, the world felt still. It was perhaps the blanketing heat, which Arthur could see moving in bleary, undulating waves on the other side of the river, that brought everything to a standstill.

Evening crept up on them languidly.

“You’re getting better at this,” Hosea observed as Arthur reeled in a very respectably sized rainbow trout. “Don’t go getting too good, now.”

Arthur chuckled as he carefully gutted and stowed the fish. It wouldn’t last too long, especially in this heat. “No chance of that, old man.”

Peering at Hosea from beneath his tattered hat, Arthur was struck by how frail he looked. It was easy to forget sometimes that Hosea hadn’t always been an old man. There were members of the gang who’d only ever known Hosea as gaunt and silver-haired, but Arthur had seen him in his prime: a slender but strong young man, whose handsome face was always alight with youthful naivety and irreverence, his hazel eyes bright and trailing Dutch everywhere, still shaking off the selfishness of youth, only just learning the dependability that now defined him.

When he looked at Hosea now, it was impossible not to again remember him twenty years younger, his cheek pressed against Dutch’s leg, golden hair falling across his cheeks. Arthur wanted to ask; opened his mouth to do so. It seemed like the right moment, if ever there could be a right moment. He wanted to understand, but Hosea looked so content, and Dutch’s name would no doubt cast a heavy shadow on the peace.

Whatever Dutch and Hosea were once, it had broken long ago. No use dredging up the past – that was the first rule, Arthur had learnt. The first rule of living their kind of lives.

So, instead, he said, “We should get going soon. They’ll be wondering where we got to.”

And Hosea looked up, and nodded, and said, “Okay, Arthur.” And Arthur wished he had said nothing, the day already slipping through his fingers like sand, the world already turning cold. Hosea already beginning to pack their things away. Arthur already missing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of this chapter will probably be edited or moved around as I work through the rest of the chapters. I know I should just wait until it's all finished before I post it so I can post it in its final form but I'm impatient & crave validation, I'm sorry. (Comments very welcome.)


	2. I. Dutch's Journal

_January 19th 1899 _

> _Well, Arthur went into town to get a new journal and brought two back. I don’t know what I’m supposed to write in here. Maybe Arthur’s hoping I’ll stop talking his ear off and put it all down in here instead. Come to think of it, Hosea seemed awful taken with the idea, too._
> 
> _ <strike>I know</strike> _ _ I see Arthur drawing in his journal sometimes. Don’t go expecting that from me. Gave all that up long ago._

_ February 1st 1899 _

> _ <strike>I</strike> _

_ February 3rd 1899 _

> _Arthur is insistent I give this a try – _
> 
> _Camp life has settled down well since we relocated. I think Blackwater could be good for us… I met a feller named Micah who saved my damn life. Arthur don’t like him none, but Arthur don’t like no-one… Starting to wonder if Arthur even trusts my judgement these days. I guess I like that Micah’s got a little faith, and some balls to boot. We’re planning a heist – on a riverboat no less! _

Dutch flipped the journal shut with a satisfying snap and refastened the leather clasp. A few moments passed as he stared intently at the cover, his brow pressed into a hard, thoughtful line and a finger running idly over his painstakingly kempt moustache. After fiddling briefly with the clasp, he opened it again and added to his most recent entry: 

> _Hosea’s birthday’s coming around again soon. Still don’t know exactly how old the coot is – maybe this year he’ll give me a straight answer. Maybe he’ll take it to his grave. Either way, next time I’m in Blackwater I should get something. I guess this is a reminder to myself._

For the second time that morning, Dutch closed the journal. This time, he leant back in his chair to stretch his sleep-weary limbs out and exhale a relieved sigh.

A cigar hung from his lips as he parted the flaps of his tent and stepped into the bustling camp. Dutch loved watching the beast unfurl from its slumber, but he’d overslept, and most folks were already going about their daily business. A hazy, yellow mist had slunk in during the night and now loitered low in the damp grass, curling like a snake around his silver-toed boots. The grey clouds above huddled together conspiratorially.

“Mornin’, Dutch.”

“Mornin’, Arthur,” Dutch replied around the cigar in his mouth, one hand moving to his hip. Thick smoke obscured his face when he exhaled.

“Catchin’ up on your beauty sleep, was you?”

With his free hand, he plucked the cigar from his lips. “Something like that, Arthur.” Then, after a moment: “Gonna rain today.”

“It surely is.”

“You seen John?”

“John? Not today. What d’you need him for?”

“How about Javier?”

“Well, sure, he’s – what’s this for, Dutch?

“Just a little recon for a job I’m planning.”

“Recon?” Arthur drawled slowly in surprise, as Dutch took a drag from his cigar and issued a muffled _mm-hm_. “Well… You don’t want _me_ to come with you?”

“Oh, don’t look so disappointed, son. I keep taking you everywhere, I’m gonna start getting accused of favouritism.”

Arthur grunted sourly in response, his lip twisting into a petulant grimace.

“Besides, Micah’s coming along, and I know you two don’t exactly see—”

“_Micah?_” Arthur hissed, his entire posture shifting in the three strides it took to get from where he had been standing to Dutch’s personal space. “You’re taking that miserable little rodent with you?”

Sucking a breath in through his teeth, Dutch removed the hand from his hip and pressed it heavily against Arthur’s chest, forcing his friend to take a step back. “Now, that is exactly why you’re staying here,” Dutch admonished.

“Dutch—!” Arthur raised a hand to protest but Dutch’s response quickly deflated him.

“I don’t want to _hear_ it, Arthur!”

The volume shocked them both, as well as a few nearby members of the camp who stopped what they were doing to look up. Dutch lowered his cigar when realised he had pointed it accusatorially at Arthur, and visibly shrunk away from his own outburst. Still tense, but now at least aware of it and trying to hide it, Dutch continued, “Find Javier for me, will you, and tell him to meet me and Micah in Blackwater when he can.”

Arthur, who had been staring resolutely at the ground, only grunted in acknowledgement. The hands that he’d rested on his hips were heavy and stubborn. When he didn’t move at inch, Dutch spoke again. “Why don’t you take one of the new recruits out somewhere, show ‘em the ropes.” Arthur nodded at that, which Dutch took to be a promising sign. “And take Hosea with you,” he added, grabbing both of Arthur’s shoulders and trying to shake some energy into them, though they both knew it was as much to shake off the awkwardness of his anger.

Dutch began to walk away, but added, “The old man’s got that look in his eye again,” over his shoulder.

“What look’s that?”

As he flicked his cigar away deftly, Dutch smiled. Arthur wouldn't be able to see it, but Dutch heard it in his own voice as he replied, “A wily one, dear boy!”

*

_(February 24th 1899)_

“That everything?” Micah asked, taking Baylock’s reigns in hand once he’d loaded the horse with all their purchases. They had made sure to be as discreet as possible, only buying what they couldn’t easily steal. It was mostly ammo, new bandanas, and rope. Micah had bought some upgrades for his gun and bragged loudly about the fact that they would be put to use sooner rather than later. Dutch had reasoned with himself that five outlaws had probably announced the exact same thing that day.

“Not quite,” Dutch responded, standing with his hands on his hips as Micah and Javier mounted their horses. “I have a few personal errands to run.”

Javier nodded obediently, bid Dutch farewell, and spurred Boaz onward – but Micah paused.

“You sure you don’t want a hand, Dutch?” he prodded, frowning. “If you need backup—”

“What part of ‘personal errands’ wasn’t clear, boy?” Dutch retorted. “I’ll see you back at camp.”

Micah squinted up at the late afternoon sun and donned his hat before looking back at Dutch. “As you wish,” he acquiesced, and kicked Baylock into a trot. Dutch watched until his form receded out of sight, wondering. The evening would soon be upon him, so he turned his back on the setting sun and sauntered back into Blackwater, his thumbs hooked beneath his belt loops.

-

When he returned to camp, the sky was inky indigo and the campfires burned bright and defiant against the growing darkness. Laughter and voices and the clink of spoons filled the chilly air. His friends and family clustered around the points of warm, golden light, huddling close to one another. The sight made his heart lift up high and soar with the cardinals overhead.

After swinging down from The Count, Dutch reached into his saddlebag and retrieved a sugar cube. “Don’t tell anyone, boy,” he muttered as he presented his flattened palm to the horse, whose tongue darted out immediately to snatch up the treat. He snickered happily as Dutch petted the pink tip of his nose fondly. The Count’s pale blue eyes watched him with steady patience as Dutch fiddled with his long, unruly mane until he grew bored and shook it all out of shape again. Dutch chuckled, scratched behind the horse’s ear, and accepted the futility of his ministrations.

Dutch unbuckled the saddle and the straps fell to the ground with a thud. From the other side, Dutch swung the straps over the seat and hauled the saddle off The Count’s back with a grunt. It landed noisily on the hitching post.

“Arthur,” he said in surprise, when he noticed the man had been hovering nearby.

“Hey, Dutch,” Arthur replied, moving closer.

“It’s times like this I wish we had a stablehand.”

Arthur laughed. “Aw, come on, Dutch – you ain’t afraid of a little manual labour now, are ya?”

“No,” Dutch returned, smiling despite himself, “I had just thought there might be some perks to old age.”

“Old age,” Arthur snorted. He moved toward The Count but stopped a few feet away when he pawed irritably at the ground. “You’re only five years older than me, Dutch.”

“And what a gruelling five years they were.”

The pair laughed heartily as Dutch came to stand beside Arthur, both men standing with one hand on their hip like a mirror image of one another. “I’d be happy to help, Dutch, but you know The Count’d sooner bite my hand clean off than let me touch him.”

“Didn’t realise I’d raised such a sissy, Arthur. Maybe I’ll ask John instead.”

Arthur looked at him sideways and the laughter in Dutch’s throat died. There was something written clearly on Arthur’s face, but Dutch couldn’t decipher it. The moment of tension dissipated when Arthur looked away and took the reins. “About time he did something to prove that he belongs here,” he grumbled, and Dutch inhaled deeply.

“John knows he did wrong,” Dutch said, “but he’s family.”

“Sure, he’s family. And that means he gets the privilege of being our stablehand instead of paying the actual price of disloyalty,” Arthur replied cheerily.

Dutch laughed again as he undid The Count’s throat-lash and pulled his bridle over his head, careful to let the bit fall from his mouth gently. “That’s better, huh, boy?” he muttered as the horse’s mouth adjusted to freedom once more. Dutch patted him on the back to guide him to where the rest of the camp’s horses grazed.

“Never met a horse that only obeyed one man before,” Arthur said as he watched.

Dutch hummed in response, returning to Arthur’s side but facing the opposite way. “Never met a man half as loyal as this horse.”

“Well, Dutch, the day I letcha put a bit in my mouth and ride me around on all fours, just take me out back and put a bullet in me, will ya?”

“Will do, son,” Dutch said, his chest shaking with laughter once more, Arthur smiling good-naturedly in his direction. “Will do.”

Arthur turned as if to return to camp but seemed to change his mind halfway through the movement. “You ready for tomorrow?” he asked.

“Ready as I’ll ever be. What about Hosea—I mean, you and Hosea’s lead. Everything running smoothly?”

Arthur nodded; his gaze so intensely perceptive that it made Dutch glance away. “Sure is. Don’t worry about us, Dutch. Just worry about tomorrow. Before you know it, we’ll all be back together, on a beach somewhere in California, with more money than any of us know what to do with.”

Although Dutch moved his head in agreement, he couldn’t bring himself to look at Arthur. “Yeah,” he said. “Just—” The words that lingered on the tip of Dutch’s tongue refused to be dislodged, so Dutch swallowed them down.

“I know,” Arthur said, and Dutch knew that he did, and that was what scared him the most.

-

Dutch stood at the entrance of his tent smoking a cigar

The moon hung heavily in the sky, but the camp still roared with life. Dutch half-listened to an argument between John and Abigail about Jack, half-listened to Davey Callander regaling Arthur, Charles, and Bill with tall tales that Dutch knew for a fact were embellished beyond recognition, half-listened to Sean bragging about the luck of the Irish and Mac Callander accusing him of cheating. The cacophony always drowned out Dutch’s thoughts for a brief time, and he savoured it just as he savoured the taste of his cigar.

Before he retired for the night, Dutch looked about for someone and spotted him on the other side of camp, shrouded in shadow. Hosea sat alone: his hands folded on the table, his enormous winter coat dwarfing his slim form, his face upturned toward the sky. He was watching the moon, too, and it illuminated his weathered features with dull, silvery light.

Dutch felt something old and tender tugging him toward his oldest friend, and he resolutely ignored it, his entire body rigid and taut with the effort of doing so.

When he looked away, Charles was standing up and shaking his head. Davey’s jeering followed him as he withdrew to his tent and Arthur’s eyes followed Charles. Dutch recognised that look, and Arthur noticed him watching. He saw the question in Arthur’s eyes turn toward him, but Dutch did nothing besides swallow thickly, as afraid of that lost, boyish look in Arthur’s eyes as he’d always been. Arthur stood up and snapped at Davey, looking away from Dutch.

Dutch did not want to know whether Arthur would follow Charles or not, so he ducked into his tent to escape it, the cacophony of the world no longer a relief from his thoughts, but a reflection of them.

-

_ February 24th 1899 _

> _Been a little while since I wrote in here… It’s a hard habit to maintain._
> 
> _Micah and Javier have been helping me prepare for tomorrow’s heist these past few weeks. It’s a risky job but the reward and the infamy will be more than worth it. It’s been odd working without Hosea and Arthur on this one, but it’s for the best. The two of them have been running around on their own, chasing their own leads. <strike>I do miss their compa</strike> _
> 
> _Micah and Javier are good companions, though, and they know how to follow orders. I trust Hosea with my life – even after everything – and Arthur, too, but sometimes I like being obeyed instead of questioned. I wonder if they question each other like they question me, or if they trust each other’s judgement. <strike>I can’t say it doesn’t </strike>_
> 
> _ <strike>We were in Blackwater today, and I finally got the old man something for his birthday. It’s only a bottle of</strike> _
> 
> _ <strike>We saw them in Blackwater today, thick as thieves, and when they saw me, something changed. I sometimes feel like Hosea is still punishing me. I don’t know what for. It wasn’t me that</strike> _

The fourth line that Dutch drew furiously through his words almost tore the page in two, and the sound of his journal hitting the wooden table shocked Molly awake.

“Dutch!” she groaned, as he dragged a hand over his face and leant forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He was perched on the edge of the bed, Molly lying next to him, trying to sleep. The same position every night. “Will you not come to bed, Dutch?” she asked, softer. “You’ve been staring at that journal for so long.”

The sound of her voice made Dutch’s palms flex into fists. He said nothing as he stared at the ground. The orange glow of the lamp, flickering in the corner of their tent, made his eyes scratchy and tired.

“What’s wrong, Dutch? Won’t you just talk to me?” she tried, laying a hand on his back in what she evidently thought was a comforting gesture. There was nothing comforting in it for Dutch, who immediately went ramrod straight at the touch. Molly’s fingers trailed after him as he stood up quickly and coldly, snatching a half-smoked cigar from where it lay on his chair. Dutch stormed from the tent with Molly shouting fruitlessly after him, his steely silence filling the tent even once he’d left.

Camp was almost entirely asleep as he strode through it, putting the cigar to his lips and pulling a match from his suit pocket as he did so. Fury shot through his blood like a drug, though it had obviously been laced with something else. Fear, perhaps, or revulsion. Panic.

His feet carried him away from camp and into the dark night; to the edge of Flat Iron Lake, to the very mouth of the river alongside which the gang had set up camp. A few miles beyond the far side of the river, he could see Blackwater glittering with light and life. The unfathomable darkness of the lake was disturbed by the town’s reflection, but somehow, Dutch thought, the specks of light only made the darkness feel deeper. 

The crescent moon, obscured now and then by thick, rolling clouds, was the only thing that stopped Dutch from tripping in the darkness.

Eventually he stopped, and puffed his cigar, and stared, transfixed, at Blackwater. He tried to empty his mind, to focus on the night itself, but the thoughts always came unbidden anyway. Thoughts of failure, of death, of regrets. Thoughts of tomorrow. Thoughts of yesterday.

These nights, when Dutch longed for a comfort that had long since died and despised his own weakness for wanting it, were the worst. In the deep dark of night, memories swam like ghosts in the corners of his eyes. Ghosts were a cruel trick of the mind, Dutch thought. A cruel trick, indeed. To take something as tender and fuzzy as memory and make it dreadful. To take something best forgotten and make it ever-present. To take something that had once been so real and make it supernatural.

Ghosts crowded Dutch’s periphery day and night, vying for his attention as loudly as the living. Everyone wanted a piece of him, and they never stopped wanting, even when they left. Dutch’s fingers shook as he returned the cigar to his mouth once more and drew the thick tobacco smoke into his mouth. The overwhelming, eye-watering intensity of it always settled him a little. The warmth, the bitter taste, the weight of it between his lips.

His eyes slipped shut as he savoured it.

The sound of leaves crunching underfoot made him start and the smoke slipped from his mouth. When he turned his head, he thought he saw a person’s shape, though it was too dark to see anything but sounds reconstructed into sights. His treacherous heart imagined first that it was his mother come to chastise him for smoking, second that it was Colm come to kill him, third that it was Hosea come to touch him.

But it was none of his ghosts. The voice that pierced the silence, clear and sharp, was Micah Bell’s. “Your bitch is crying in your tent.”

Micah stepped out from the impenetrable gloom of the treeline and into the moon’s dull, grey light, chasing the ghosts back into the margins with his presence. Dutch’s heart swelled and shrank in his chest as he watched Micah swagger toward him, and he attempted to decipher whether it was relief or disappointment that made him shudder.

“Another thing I’m responsible for, I suppose.”

“Didn’t say that.” Micah halted beside him, staring at the town lights as Dutch had. “Reckon someone should teach her some manners, though.” Micah turned to grin at him widely. “I can do it, if you don’t wanna get your hands dirty.”

“No,” Dutch said, looking away, afraid of what he saw in Micah’s eyes. “I’ll deal with her.”

Micah did not bother to hide his dissatisfaction, but despite opening his mouth to protest, he was wise enough to let it go. “Whatever you say, boss,” he grumbled, folding to the ground with a loud grunt and pulling out a cigarette. “You got a light?”

“Sure,” Dutch said. “Here.” Micah took the matches offered to him as Dutch removed the cigar from his mouth with his free hand to yawn widely, his entire body suddenly becoming aware of its sleeplessness. Dutch didn’t seem to sleep anymore, just sat and read, or sat and wrote, or sat and thought. Somehow crawling into bed beside Molly seemed a worse fate than not sleeping. He felt a prisoner in his own tent, and the worst thing was that it was a prison of his own making. “How are you feeling about tomorrow, son?” he said to stopper his thoughts.

Micah took a moment to exhale the cigarette smoke from his lungs and stretch himself out, his hands planted firmly in the grass behind him. “Good, o’ course. We’re gonna be so goddamn rich, Dutch, how could I not feel good?”

“Mm,” Dutch agreed. “We are.”

“You know, it was real smart of you to leave them two out of it, boss.” Micah sniffed derisively before putting his cigarette to his lips.

Dutch frowned. “Hosea and Arthur?”

“Sure. We need everything runnin’ smoothly.”

“And you don’t—” Dutch was struggling to catch up, his mouth hanging slightly ajar at Micah’s words, “you don’t think they’re up to it?”

“No,” Micah said. “No, I do not.”

It took a few seconds for the seriousness of Micah’s words to sink in, but once it did, Dutch threw his head back and roared with laughter, his entire body shaking. A hand landed on Micah’s shoulder to steady himself. As soon as his laughter died down, Dutch patted that same shoulder good-naturedly before returning it to his hip.

“All due respect, son, but I’ve known those two a long, long time, and they have never let me down.”

“All due respect, Dutch, but that ain’t what I’ve heard.”

“Oh?” Dutch turned sharply to face the vague outline of Micah in the dark, the mirth falling from his tone. “And what exactly have you heard?”

“Well, for one, I heard Arthur almost got two of the new recruits killed last week, and for two… I mean, it ain’t no secret that Hosea’s losing his touch.” Dutch’s gobsmacked silence allowed Micah to continue his explanation. “Oh, come off it, Dutch. Why else would he be pursuin’ such a low profit venture? He’s lost his goddamn balls, that’s all, and it ain’t no wonder why at his age—”

“Alright, Micah, that’s enough.”

Micah watched Dutch out of the corner of his eye as Dutch continued to smoke his cigar and watch the shoreline as though Micah hadn’t spoke at all. Gritting his teeth, Micah stood up and moved closer to Dutch. Dutch remained unmoved.

“Look, Dutch, I get it. You’re loyal to them. I respect that. But loyalty’s gotta go both ways. And you shouldn’t let somethin’ like love dictate who you’re loyal to, neither.”

That struck Dutch, though he tried his best to hide it. He peered queerly at Micah, his eyes flickering across his face. The whites of Micah’s eyes were clear even in the darkness. Fear crawled up his neck, leaving goose bumps in its wake. “If love don’t dictate loyalty,” he said slowly, as though speaking to a child. “Then what does?”

“Logic, Dutch. Cold, hard logic.”

Dutch stared at him. When it became clear he wasn’t going to respond, Micah huffed a pitying sigh, clapped Dutch on the shoulder, and muttered, “See you in the mornin’, Dutch,” before melting in the night.

Nausea made Dutch’s stomach roil as fear and shame swelled up inside him. He stood in silence for a long time. He stood there until the grey light of the morning had come creeping over the horizon, and his cigar had burnt out, and all his ghosts had seeped back into the corners of the living world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it was way harder than I expected trying to get into Dutch's head for this one. updates will be sporadic as I'm moving house soon but I'm still so extremely invested in this fic that I'm not worried about forgetting about it lmao


	3. II. Arthur’s Journal

_(February 13th 1899)_

“Real weird, huh?”

“Mm,” Hosea agreed as he lifted a cup of hot tea to his lips. “Downright spooky.” A pause. “I hope young Jenny’s alright,” he mused, scratching idly at an itch on his neck.

“Long as they don’t ask her to shoot no deer, she’ll be just fine. Besides, Lenny’s there. He won’t let nothin’ happen to Miss Jenny.”

Hosea nodded. “I suppose you’re right, Arthur. I just— worry. Seems wrong to let young ‘uns risk their lives when I’m almost—”

“Don’t—” Arthur interrupted quickly, “—you dare finish that sentence, Hosea. You risk your life plenty for this gang.”

Despite himself, Hosea chuckled croakily at Arthur’s chastisement and attempted ineffectually to disguise the cough that followed. Arthur said nothing, but the look he gave the old man contained volumes.

They lapsed into silence, the crackle of the fire and distant, muffled words filling their hush; Hosea yawned as the peacefulness lulled him into a drowsy state. It was late evening, but camp was uncomfortably quiet. Most of the men were along for the riverboat heist, so camp had been stripped down to its skeleton crew. Jenny had tagged along, Hosea and Arthur having vouched for her being a good shot, but the rest of the women had remained, along with Pearson, Swanson, and Strauss. Arthur hadn’t seen it this empty in a long time, though – and the main campfire was completely deserted. Some of the girls were already turning in for an early night.

Arthur almost suggested they turn in for the night, too, but he’d been enjoying these quiet moments with Hosea. Instead of opening his mouth, he pulled out his journal and began to sketch Hosea sitting on the log, his face half-obscured by his hat. Beneath the drawing he wrote,

_Hosea is far too selfless. Maybe if he put himself first for once, he might not have caught this ominous goddamn cough. I don’t like it one bit. He shouldn’t be sleeping on the floor neither. I will mention it to Dutch when we’re headed West again. Hosea won’t listen to me, but he might listen to Dutch._

“Arthur, ain’t you got something more interesting to draw than a tired old man?”

“You’re plenty interesting, Hosea,” Arthur countered swiftly, without glancing up from the page, and heard Hosea exhale a tired laugh.

“You shoulda drawn me in my prime, Arthur. Not like this. I don’t wanna be remembered like this.”

The words drove a cold stake through Arthur’s heart, and he looked up suddenly. Everything was always so damn fatalistic with Hosea these days. Not that Arthur could blame him. “We got that photograph,” Arthur offered, his brows drawn together.

For a few moments, Hosea looked confused, and then his eyes lit up with the searing luminosity of memory. “Huh,” he said. “You kept that?”

“O’ course.”

“Forgot about that.”

They sank into silence, though Arthur could practically hear the thoughts whirring in Hosea’s mind. Arthur knew well enough by now not to press him. There was nothing Hosea said that he didn’t want to say of his own accord. He could feel Hosea’s eyes on his face, but he’d turned his attention back to refining the finer details of his sketch, filling in the shadows of Hosea’s face with small, sidelong strokes. It was mostly from memory now that Hosea was watching him – he’d always felt embarrassed to be caught sketching someone – but he knew his old man’s face better than his own. Dutch’s, too. And John’s. Hell, he could probably sketch the entire camp from memory better than he could sketch his own face.

Once Arthur stilled his pencil, he looked at the whole of the drawing, and realised how long he had spent perfecting it. He was glad of it, though, because it looked good. Worthy of Hosea. It was the kind of art that reflected the affection back at the observer. Every line so meticulous and careful, so loving. Upon glancing at it, you could not but feel the same love that had been poured into it.

“Can I see?” Hosea asked, clearing his throat when the words came out croakier than he’d expected.

“This?” Arthur looked up at Hosea. “Or the photograph?”

“Well—both.”

Arthur tapped thoughtfully on the yellowed page of the journal and then closed it over his index finger to save the page. “Sure,” he said, standing as he handed it to Hosea. “Ignore the writin’.”

By the time he’d reached his bedside table, Hosea was laughing again, loud and crisp. It rang through the empty, hushed camp. Arthur’s eyes skirted around the image of his biological father with well-practiced ease to focus instead of the family portrait. It had been a while since he’d looked at it – really looked – past the familiarity.

“I told you not to read the writing.”

“Arthur,” Hosea said. “This is beautiful.”

“Naw,” Arthur protested. “’S just a sketch.”

“Son.” Arthur raised an eyebrow at Hosea’s serious tone, growing self-conscious as Hosea peered at him. “That’s talent.”

“_Talent_?” came the amused response. “What good is talent? Ain’t gonna put food on the table, Hosea. Or a roof over our head. Or clothes on our backs. Or—”

“No,” Hosea agreed, “but that can’t be the only reason to do something in this life. You think I married my Bessie because it was the sensible thing to do?”

Arthur seated himself beside his old man with a huffed exhalation, their knees knocking as Arthur stretched his legs out. In his hands, he still clutched the old photograph, as Hosea was still rapt with interest in his drawing. He looked down at it, wondering when exactly it had been taken. It was before Bessie and Hosea married; he knew that much. “Why _did_ you marry Bessie?” he asked, trying to keep his tone nonchalant.

“Oh, Arthur, it’s a little late for the birds and bees conversation, ain’t it?”

Arthur was not perceptive enough to tell whether Hosea’s grin masked something vulnerable, but the suspicion was there. Regardless, Arthur mimicked Hosea’s amusement with a huff of self-deprecating laughter and glanced away, down at the photograph. “You know what I mean,” he said to the face of Hosea’s thirty-something-year-old self.

“Go on,” Hosea prompted, though his gaze had also been drawn by the object that Arthur now held onehanded, his own fingers darting out to steady the image. His thumb rested against his own shoulder, against that tattered old jacket he had since worn to death. Its particular shade of yellow had been lost to time and technology, along with the vibrant blue of Arthur’s then-new bandana, and the gleam of Dutch’s silver necklace under the fluorescent lighting. Lost to time, indeed – and not just the colours, but the people themselves, and the ways they understood one another, and the rhythms of their hearts beating in their chests. All had faded to sepia over these long years.

Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly. “You and Dutch—” he said, like that was enough. Hosea tugged the photograph from Arthur’s hand to get a better look.

“Look at us,” he said, mirth in his voice, as though Arthur hadn’t spoken. “So serious, even back then. And those—those pinstripe trousers,” Hosea laughed, the photograph shaking, and Arthur joined in.

“Dutch loved them.”

“Heaven only knows why—”

“Those jodhpurs, on the other hand—”

“The latest in London fashion, son! You pulled them off better than either of us could.”

“I still wonder if Dutch bought them so as his pinstripe looked good in comparison…”

Hosea hoarse laugh, so joyful and unrestrained, always made Arthur smile. “If he did,” Hosea said, “it backfired terribly. Even back then, his plans were—”

“Questionable?”

“Fallible, I was gonna say.”

“Fallible,” Arthur repeated with a chuckle. “Yeah.”

“Dutch,” Hosea began, with the sudden but casual conviction of someone about to recall a fact, but he stopped short suddenly, and the surety faded from his worn features. “Well.”

“It’s alright, Hosea, I ain’t expectin’ you to—”

“No,” Hosea interrupted, surprising Arthur. “I want to—I mean. Sometimes I worry I’ll kick the bucket before I say— oh, I don’t know—_somethin’_.” He seemed to withdraw into his thoughts then, staring intently at the ghostly faces in his hand as though trying to resurrect them. Perhaps he was. Arthur waited, looking away from Hosea to allow him some kind of privacy. Beyond them, near the main campfire, Abigail was trying to impress upon young Jack that it was his bedtime.

“Dutch,” Hosea said again at length, “and I. Well.” There was something in his voice that Arthur couldn’t parse. A surrender, maybe. “You asked me why I married my Bessie. I did love her; in case you were thinkin’ I didn’t. She was kind of—she was a kindred spirit. I sometimes felt we were two pieces of the same person, like twins or something. Bessie had this rural beauty, you know, modest but charming, with ruddy cheeks and a big smile. A quiet kind of beauty.”

“You think you’ve got a quiet kind of beauty, old man?”

Hosea laughed and briefly closed his eyes against the wave of amusement. “I suppose so,” he returned, when he had sobered. “Like I said, rural. I always knew I was handsome, especially back then, and Bessie was, too. But we were—”

“Yokels?”

“Yes,” Hosea said, smiling. “We came from similar places. We understood one another. In this life, it ain’t often we understand each other like that.”

Arthur hummed in agreement. “Did you understand Dutch?”

“Not at all. That’s why I was so… so taken with him, I think. I’d never met anyone like him. Dutch had this—I mean, Dutch wanted to understand everyone. It was so noble. I’d never stopped to think about other people before that, never wanted to understand them. It was me against the world. Had been since as long as I could remember. My old man taught me that, I reckon. Just taking, taking, taking from the world, like it was my right. Dutch wasn’t the first person to try to change me, but he was the first person to get through to me. But eventually, you know, of course, we began to understand one another, I think. At least, we changed each other, same as you change everyone you meet, and it was the part of ourselves we buried in the other that we understood the most.”

Hosea finally looked up at Arthur. It was a knife to Arthur’s chest, to see the way the firelight made the dampness clinging to his old man’s eyelashes shimmer.

“That was probably our mistake,” Hosea admitted. “My mistake. Like with Bessie. I saw everyone as a mirror. I was selfish back then, especially where Dutch was concerned. And I think, in a way, I made Dutch selfish, too. Didn’t mean to. But.” Hosea paused to inhale deeply and sigh. “It’s funny how that works.”

Arthur hummed in vague agreement because Hosea had finished speaking and he did not know how to respond. The silence in the cool air between them had seeped into his brain and quieted the flurry of thoughts that Hosea’s words had stirred.

Eventually, Hosea spoke for him. “I love you and John like sons, Arthur. And I know my love for you both is pure ‘cause I don’t wanna see none of myself in either of you. I want you both to be better.”

“Hosea,” Arthur said quietly, struggling around the lump that had formed in his throat. “You know you’re the most selfless man I’ve ever known?”

“Maybe it seems that way now,” Hosea replied, frowning.

“Seems that way ‘cause it is that way. And it’s been that way since you and Dutch picked me up off the street way back when.”

At Arthur’s insistence, Hosea heaved a sigh, and then breathed a laugh, unable to decide between annoyance and amusement. “Fine,” he conceded. “But when I’m dead and gone, with just these to remember me by, promise me you’ll remember that you can’t love someone proper if you only lookin’ at your reflection in their eyes.”

“I will,” Arthur promised, his heart aching at Hosea’s words. He looked at the photograph and sketch in his hands and tried to imagine a day when they were the only remnants left of Hosea. It was more than plenty of people got, he supposed.

“This ain’t all, neither,” he remembered suddenly.

“What ‘ain’t all, neither’?”

“These,” Arthur said, gesturing to the objects on which they had been reflecting. “Ain’t all there is to remember you by.” Hosea wasn’t following. “You’ve got Dutch’s drawings. Of you.”

Arthur had expected to see realisation dawn on Hosea’s face – perhaps a hint of embarrassment that Arthur knew about those – perhaps sheepishness at having forgotten in the first place.

But Hosea only looked faintly bemused, his mouth ajar as he tried to form a question that extended further than ‘what?’, and then he glanced sideways.

There dawning on his face was one of horror: he was staring at something behind Arthur. A bloody screech pierced the camp’s quietude – a child’s wail.

“JACK?” Arthur roared as he rushed toward the sound, gun already in his hand, heart already in his throat. He moved as though controlled by some external force, long strides carrying him forward through the awakening camp. People were here and there emerging from their tents, but before Arthur could tell them all to take cover, he understood the source of the scream with a clarity that made his blood run cold.

Hosea halted beside him. “Oh my God,” the old man managed, sounding as though he might throw up, but Arthur didn’t have time to look back at him.

It was Jenny.

*

The camp gathered around the scene and Arthur slipped quickly between them. He did not quite know where to look first.

“She’s alive,” Lenny insisted brokenly, as much to the universe as Arthur, fresh tears spilling forth into the dried, salty lines that cut through the thick layers of blood on his face. He was still atop the horse, clinging to Jenny with one arm, his other hand on the reins. Jenny was entirely limp. Her clothes were torn asunder and soaked crimson; congealed blood and gaping wounds protruded from every gap in the material.

Arthur let Lenny lower her into his arms and he crumpled to the ground holding her, Lenny joining him immediately. There was so much blood that Arthur could not fathom how she could possibly be alive. His blood ran colder and colder, making his movements slow and stuttering, like an automaton’s dream.

In his state of shock, he didn’t notice Hosea kneeling beside him until he spoke the words Arthur should have asked immediately. “What happened?”

Neither of them could take their eyes of the state of Jenny’s leg.

Lenny, still so green, was pressing down on her shoulder, which gushed more blood than her leg, though was far less likely to kill her first.

“Is she going to die?” Jack asked from somewhere behind them, evidently to his mother, who was clutching him tightly and trying to pull him away from the scene.

“No.”

“Lenny,” Hosea said, and then repeated his question with more urgency: “What _happened_?”

“I—I—I—It all happened so fast, you don’t—God, it was so stupid, so reckless—”

“_Lenny_.”

“It went—it went wrong—everything went wrong. I don’t know how they knew but the—the Pinkertons, they just—just swarmed us, it was—”

“Where are the others?” Arthur interjected.

“They—they fled—into the mountains—Dutch told me to bring Jenny back and—and—”

“Were you followed?”

“What?”

“Were you followed?” Arthur repeated, a little sterner, getting to his feet and looking about.

“No—no, of course not!”

“You’re sure?” Hosea asked, not unkindly. Lenny looked shaken to the core, but Arthur’s question had brought him back to his senses a little.

“I’m—I think so. What do we do, Arthur? She’s still breathin’, but—”

“Miss Grimshaw,” Arthur beckoned, though when he turned, she was already beside him, ready to spring into action. “Medical supplies and hot water. I’m putting her on my bed—”

“Ain’t we leavin’—?”

“Reverend, you interrupt me again and Jenny ain’t gonna be the only one here bleedin’ out on the floor.” Arthur barely glanced at the man as he bent down again and carefully removed his friend from Lenny’s arms. She was limp and cold and sodden, and if Lenny hadn’t been so sure she was still alive, he would’ve thought it was a corpse he lifted over his shoulder.

Susan had cleared Arthur’s bed and moved the necessary supplies to the bedside table by the time Arthur lowered her onto the cot. He took great care to repress the tremor in his hand as he pressed two fingers against her throat. The pulse was weak, but existent.

“Clean her up,” he said as he stepped away and let Susan take the reins, “as best you can. That leg wound needs sorting first. It might need to be—you know.”

Hosea was bent on one knee, talking quietly to Lenny with a hand on the young man’s shoulder when Arthur returned. “Lenny, you’re with me.”

Both men looked confused at his order, but Hosea was the first to protest. “Arthur—”

“I want you here with the others, Hosea. You’re good at keeping ‘em calm. And Lenny has the better eye.”

After a few long moments, Hosea nodded his assent. Arthur turned to address the congregation of confused, petrified onlookers. “Everyone who’s not helping Miss Grimshaw needs to start packing. There’s no use leaving right away, not with Jenny in this state and the Pinkertons likely guarding every path into the mountains. We’ll catch up with the others in a few days. Until then, stay put. Nobody leaves this camp.” Then, because he noticed that Jack was crying into his mother’s dress, he added: “It’s gonna be okay. We just gotta keep our wits about us. In a few months, this’ll all feel like a bad dream.”

They did as they were told, with long looks cast about them, the anxiety written deep into the lines of their faces. As Arthur mounted his horse, they all looked toward Hosea’s warm, guiding light.

“Let’s go,” Arthur said, tearing his gaze from his father figure and forcing Lenny to tear his from Jenny as they melted into the darkness of the forest.

*

They trotted in silence for hours upon hours, tracing larger and larger semicircles around the half of camp that wasn’t guarded by a body of water. There was no sign of Pinkertons.

When Lenny spoke again, his voice was calmer and more even, as though a fog had lifted. “You really believe we’re gonna be okay this time?”

“I have to,” Arthur replied, meeting his eye. Arthur thought he looked more himself.

A few minutes passed before Lenny spoke again. The glow of the camp was visible now through the trees. “We weren’t really scouting for Pinkertons, were we?”

Arthur grunted, his body unwilling to laugh. “We were for the first hour.” Then, on reflection, he added, “Yer too smart for your own good, kid.”

He heard Lenny exhale a long sigh.

“Thanks, Arthur,” he said quietly, lapsing into appreciative silence for only a short while before speaking again, the colour returning to his voice. “I suppose I don’t have a better eye than Hosea, either?”

Despite the fraught tension in Arthur’s body, he allowed himself to relax into a brief smile. “No,” he agreed as they re-entered camp and met the eyes of all who turned fearfully toward the sound of their voices. “Not by far.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uni is taking up all my time and energy as usual but I'm still thinking obsessively about this fic at all times lol
> 
> I'm not 100% happy with this chapter so I'm gonna keep tinkering with it before I move onto the next chapter! sorry I am so disorganised


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